Chapter Twenty One
In which there is theological debate, and a waitress named Enid.
Remember to scroll down; Chapter Twenty was also posted today, and late last night, seventeen through nineteen were posted.
Twenty One
"You said you had special plans," Oscar said, as he and Félix paced the perimeter of the church, Félix stopping occasionally to kick over a stone. It was cool out, but not chilly; Félix drew in a few breaths before replying.
"I have a task for you," he said finally. "If you'd like to refuse, I'd understand; it's a church, after all. Or was, once."
Oscar waited patiently, a little further along, underneath a broken window. Inside the technicians were joking with Luc about something, and Portia's voice raised in protest.
"I want to be sure that you work for me because you want to, and not because you feel any debt. I never wanted you to owe me," Félix continued. "The truth is, I never wanted to employ you."
"Never...?" Oscar frowned.
"I liked you. I didn't want to be your boss. I liked Portia; she doesn't hide it when she stares. And she only stares until she understands. More people should be like Portia," Félix said.
"If they were, nobody would ever own any silverware."
"She understand poverty and she does something about it."
"It's logic of a sort," Oscar agreed.
"I liked that you were still frightened of me when I showed up the way I did, on the rooftop in New York -- I liked that you didn't dismiss me. You still cared what I thought, underneath the..." Félix smiled and gestured at his face, with its eyeliner and messy-styled hair, then down at one wrist, clad in a leather cuff.
"That was weird," Oscar said, unsure what else to say.
"So now I'm faced with the same problem. I want to pay you, you want to work. The question is, do you want to work so bad...that I become just an employer to you?" Félix asked, walking forward. Oscar fell into step again, as they reached the far end of the church's outer wall, his eyes falling on the flying buttresses as they walked underneath each one.
"Félix, this life...this way of living...that's something we never would have seen, if it weren't for you. Well..." Oscar temporised, "Portia might have. She has the ambition, and she's ruthless when she wants her way -- "
"I've never found her so."
"You've always let her have her way," Oscar said, with a grin.
"This is true," Félix allowed thoughtfully. "Although not in what mattered, I think. I think I saved that for you. Perhaps I have...given you too much leeway, but if I did so, I did it out of concern for you. We three -- we three and perhaps Luc -- know what was lost, the last time we worked together to create something. Luc's a workman; if he can build, he's happy. He mourned and survived. Portia and I are stronger than you, or perhaps simply more shallow; we survived. Maybe I should have forced you to survive too, but I didn't, and that's the end of it. Still, you can't forget who you are, Oscar."
Oscar snorted. "There wasn't much to forget, Félix."
"Wasn't there? Isn't there? You're not some hanger-on of a rich young idiot, you're not my employee. Not first. You aren't an out-of-work architect. You're Byron Oreglia's protege. You were chosen by him because you're a brilliant architect. Oreglia saw that, he trained you to use your brilliance. One day people will boast that they own an original Shelley. Painting or house."
"Félix -- "
"This isn't starry-eyed awe, Oscar, don't demean me," Félix said, the first time he'd ever been sharp, that Oscar could remember. "You are a great restorationist, a great historian, a great architect. Don't bury that simply because you're still grieving the hotel."
"I'm not -- it's just a hotel!"
"It's not just a hotel. If it had been just a hotel, you wouldn't have come back to France."
Oscar watched clouds drift, slowly, across the sky.
"What is it you want me to do, Félix?" he asked. "You have a beautiful church. I can see how it will look when it's finished."
Félix shook his head. "I don't think you can."
"Oh?"
"You're not going to restore a church, Oscar. You're going to turn it into a home. Like we planned."
Oscar turned to look at him, then.
"I'm going to what?"
Félix pointed to the bricks in the church exterior, where the rose window had once been.
"Someday I'll wake up, and see that as my bedroom window," he said with a smile.
***
Portia, who had definite Views and Attitudes on the church, opted not to go to dinner with the priest that night. She and Luc were going to have dinner in London, instead, and look up some of Luc's old building contacts. It was hardly half an hour's drive in to the city, which was convenient, as Félix didn't seem the type to bury himself in the countryside with no access to designer fashion, gourmet food, or professional theatre.
When Oscar had asked Félix whether he'd spoken to his parents about his domestic intentions, Félix had asked Oscar to let him have his fantasies for at least another two weeks. Which, considering Félix had indulged Oscar's four-month hermitage in Paris, did not seem entirely unreasonable.
"Félix, when you said that whether or not you were lapsed depended on the definition of lapsed," Oscar began, as they sat in the clean but tiny pub, waiting for Father Wright to appear, "Were you ever intending to explain how you defined lapsed?"
"Not unless you asked," Félix replied. "He sounded like a very nice man on the phone, is he nice in person?"
"Who, the priest? I guess -- isn't it kind of a requirement?"
"To be nice?" Félix pondered. "If so, the priest of our old parish was clearly grandfathered in. No, I don't think so. I think honesty precludes it."
"Wretched concept."
"Indeed."
"What are you going to tell him, Félix?"
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it has been ten years since my last confession -- "
"Félix!"
"All right, eleven."
"I guess we know what you mean by lapsed," Oscar said, as a pretty young woman approached with a pad of paper.
"Drinks, gentlemen?" she asked.
"Uh, Coke please, and a glass of water," Oscar said. Félix held up two fingers, and she nodded and whisked away. "Yeah, don't drink when you meet with priests."
Félix waggled his eyebrows and opened his jacket a little; the glint of a flask in his inside pocket caught Oscar's eye.
"I hear word travels fast in small towns; I thought it would be prudent to bring my own."
Oscar shook his head, just as someone cried "Mr Shelley!" above the noise of clinking glasses. Father Wright, in slightly less formal attire than before, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, had lifted a wide, pale hand to wave at them. Oscar waved back, and gestured him over; he stopped at the bar, first, to speak to the woman who'd taken their drinks order, and arrived with a small tray of glasses -- two Cokes, three waters, and a tall pint glass of beer.
"Don't bother," he said, as both men made to stand. "Booths are awkward at the best of times. Mr Shelley, good to see you again. Mr Carvell, I assume?"
"Father," Félix said respectfully, shaking the offered hand. "A pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise. Enid said you ordered Cokes? You really should try the beer, they spend part of the summer each year brewing their own," Wright said, sliding the tray onto the table.
"One never knows, in small towns," Félix said gravely.
"Perhaps so. I'm so glad to meet you, Mr Carvell. I'm told your offer on the old St Thomas' was quite generous. You speak excellent English."
"Thank you," Félix said. "I understand you have done some research on the church."
"It's an interesting old thing," Wright agreed. "I assume you're planning to restore the church? Perhaps a museum?"
Félix glanced at Oscar. "We are looking into restoration, yes. Do you know of Mr Shelley's work?"
"Félix," Oscar said, under his breath.
"I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure..."
"Mr Shelley is a talented restorationist and architect. It's his specialty," Félix continued blithely. "I've had him on retainer for over a year."
"I'm glad to know the church is in such good hands," Father Wright said affably.
"He is also a very imaginative designer. I'll show you some of his paintings sometime; he does very well with watercolours," Félix said. "This is why he is so uniquely qualified to do the required renovations."
The priest's eyebrows raised slightly. "Renovations?"
"Yes; I'm planning to live in the building when it's finished."
There was a long silence. Father Wright folded his hands, resting his chin on his knuckles.
"You're planning to turn the church into your home?" he asked.
"Yes, Father."
"Why?"
"Because it's beautiful," Félix answered.
"It's a church," the priest answered, sharply.
"But it's been deconsecrated, hasn't it?" Oscar asked. The priest stiffened. "It's not actually a -- "
"You do not deconsecrate a church, Mr. Shelley, you unconsecrate. Consecration is not an object to be removed, but a process to be undone."
Oscar could hear Portia's voice, in his head, saying You're in for it now.
"All right, but it's been unconsecrated?" Oscar persisted.
"Yes, in the eyes of the church. That doesn't mean it's not still a sacred place. To come in with your bulldozers and your landscapers..."
"Nothing will be bulldozed," Félix protested.
"Listen, I may not see it as a church, but I see it as a building," Oscar added, feeling that he was perhaps not keeping up his end of the debate. "There's nothing more valuable to me than buildings."
"A church, unconsecrated or otherwise, is a house of God, not a housing project," Father Wright said firmly.
"I am a Catholic, Father, I mean no disrespect to the church," Félix said, and the priest scowled. "I have only respect for the artistry and craft which went into the building as an act of devotion."
"I must register my strongest protestations at this."
"Unfortunately, it's already been sold," Oscar said. "Listen, I'm not a Catholic, and if the church is offended by my wanting to make an old, bricked up, broken-windowed, falling-apart home for birds and homeless people into something beautiful and functional, I'm afraid my respect for the church isn't exactly at an all-time high."
Father Wright was staring at him as if he'd come from another planet. Oscar pushed on, pulse racing at his own daring. "Your own religious body sold the land and the building to Mr. Carvell. You really have three options. If you're really that upset, you can talk to the church and get them to void the sale, if they can, or buy it back, if Mr. Carvell will sell. You can talk to Mr. Carvell here, directly, and try to convince him, but he has very independent ideas about this kind of thing. Or you can talk to me, because I'm the one actually doing the renovation, and I'm reasonable about preserving the things you want preserved."
Both Félix and Father Wright were looking at him now. Oscar sipped his water.
"I'm done now," he added, just as the girl from earlier -- Enid, apparently -- appeared again.
"Dinner for you gentlemen? Father?" she asked, pencil poised.
"I think I've lost my appetite," Wright said, quietly. "I'll settle at the till."
"I can pay -- " Félix began, but Wright held up one hand.
"I don't think that would be a good idea," he said. Oscar and Félix watched him walk away, quietly. Enid watched too, then turned back to them.
"You're not Satanists, are you?" she asked.
"He might be," Félix said, tilting his head at Oscar, who bowed his head.
"I'd like some french fries. Chips," Oscar corrected. "And some chicken of some kind."
"Pretty mild eater for a Satanist," she sniffed, glancing at Félix expectantly.
"Stew, please, with extra dumplings," Félix said. "And a bottle of something dangerously alcoholic."
Remember to scroll down; Chapter Twenty was also posted today, and late last night, seventeen through nineteen were posted.
Twenty One
"You said you had special plans," Oscar said, as he and Félix paced the perimeter of the church, Félix stopping occasionally to kick over a stone. It was cool out, but not chilly; Félix drew in a few breaths before replying.
"I have a task for you," he said finally. "If you'd like to refuse, I'd understand; it's a church, after all. Or was, once."
Oscar waited patiently, a little further along, underneath a broken window. Inside the technicians were joking with Luc about something, and Portia's voice raised in protest.
"I want to be sure that you work for me because you want to, and not because you feel any debt. I never wanted you to owe me," Félix continued. "The truth is, I never wanted to employ you."
"Never...?" Oscar frowned.
"I liked you. I didn't want to be your boss. I liked Portia; she doesn't hide it when she stares. And she only stares until she understands. More people should be like Portia," Félix said.
"If they were, nobody would ever own any silverware."
"She understand poverty and she does something about it."
"It's logic of a sort," Oscar agreed.
"I liked that you were still frightened of me when I showed up the way I did, on the rooftop in New York -- I liked that you didn't dismiss me. You still cared what I thought, underneath the..." Félix smiled and gestured at his face, with its eyeliner and messy-styled hair, then down at one wrist, clad in a leather cuff.
"That was weird," Oscar said, unsure what else to say.
"So now I'm faced with the same problem. I want to pay you, you want to work. The question is, do you want to work so bad...that I become just an employer to you?" Félix asked, walking forward. Oscar fell into step again, as they reached the far end of the church's outer wall, his eyes falling on the flying buttresses as they walked underneath each one.
"Félix, this life...this way of living...that's something we never would have seen, if it weren't for you. Well..." Oscar temporised, "Portia might have. She has the ambition, and she's ruthless when she wants her way -- "
"I've never found her so."
"You've always let her have her way," Oscar said, with a grin.
"This is true," Félix allowed thoughtfully. "Although not in what mattered, I think. I think I saved that for you. Perhaps I have...given you too much leeway, but if I did so, I did it out of concern for you. We three -- we three and perhaps Luc -- know what was lost, the last time we worked together to create something. Luc's a workman; if he can build, he's happy. He mourned and survived. Portia and I are stronger than you, or perhaps simply more shallow; we survived. Maybe I should have forced you to survive too, but I didn't, and that's the end of it. Still, you can't forget who you are, Oscar."
Oscar snorted. "There wasn't much to forget, Félix."
"Wasn't there? Isn't there? You're not some hanger-on of a rich young idiot, you're not my employee. Not first. You aren't an out-of-work architect. You're Byron Oreglia's protege. You were chosen by him because you're a brilliant architect. Oreglia saw that, he trained you to use your brilliance. One day people will boast that they own an original Shelley. Painting or house."
"Félix -- "
"This isn't starry-eyed awe, Oscar, don't demean me," Félix said, the first time he'd ever been sharp, that Oscar could remember. "You are a great restorationist, a great historian, a great architect. Don't bury that simply because you're still grieving the hotel."
"I'm not -- it's just a hotel!"
"It's not just a hotel. If it had been just a hotel, you wouldn't have come back to France."
Oscar watched clouds drift, slowly, across the sky.
"What is it you want me to do, Félix?" he asked. "You have a beautiful church. I can see how it will look when it's finished."
Félix shook his head. "I don't think you can."
"Oh?"
"You're not going to restore a church, Oscar. You're going to turn it into a home. Like we planned."
Oscar turned to look at him, then.
"I'm going to what?"
Félix pointed to the bricks in the church exterior, where the rose window had once been.
"Someday I'll wake up, and see that as my bedroom window," he said with a smile.
***
Portia, who had definite Views and Attitudes on the church, opted not to go to dinner with the priest that night. She and Luc were going to have dinner in London, instead, and look up some of Luc's old building contacts. It was hardly half an hour's drive in to the city, which was convenient, as Félix didn't seem the type to bury himself in the countryside with no access to designer fashion, gourmet food, or professional theatre.
When Oscar had asked Félix whether he'd spoken to his parents about his domestic intentions, Félix had asked Oscar to let him have his fantasies for at least another two weeks. Which, considering Félix had indulged Oscar's four-month hermitage in Paris, did not seem entirely unreasonable.
"Félix, when you said that whether or not you were lapsed depended on the definition of lapsed," Oscar began, as they sat in the clean but tiny pub, waiting for Father Wright to appear, "Were you ever intending to explain how you defined lapsed?"
"Not unless you asked," Félix replied. "He sounded like a very nice man on the phone, is he nice in person?"
"Who, the priest? I guess -- isn't it kind of a requirement?"
"To be nice?" Félix pondered. "If so, the priest of our old parish was clearly grandfathered in. No, I don't think so. I think honesty precludes it."
"Wretched concept."
"Indeed."
"What are you going to tell him, Félix?"
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it has been ten years since my last confession -- "
"Félix!"
"All right, eleven."
"I guess we know what you mean by lapsed," Oscar said, as a pretty young woman approached with a pad of paper.
"Drinks, gentlemen?" she asked.
"Uh, Coke please, and a glass of water," Oscar said. Félix held up two fingers, and she nodded and whisked away. "Yeah, don't drink when you meet with priests."
Félix waggled his eyebrows and opened his jacket a little; the glint of a flask in his inside pocket caught Oscar's eye.
"I hear word travels fast in small towns; I thought it would be prudent to bring my own."
Oscar shook his head, just as someone cried "Mr Shelley!" above the noise of clinking glasses. Father Wright, in slightly less formal attire than before, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, had lifted a wide, pale hand to wave at them. Oscar waved back, and gestured him over; he stopped at the bar, first, to speak to the woman who'd taken their drinks order, and arrived with a small tray of glasses -- two Cokes, three waters, and a tall pint glass of beer.
"Don't bother," he said, as both men made to stand. "Booths are awkward at the best of times. Mr Shelley, good to see you again. Mr Carvell, I assume?"
"Father," Félix said respectfully, shaking the offered hand. "A pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise. Enid said you ordered Cokes? You really should try the beer, they spend part of the summer each year brewing their own," Wright said, sliding the tray onto the table.
"One never knows, in small towns," Félix said gravely.
"Perhaps so. I'm so glad to meet you, Mr Carvell. I'm told your offer on the old St Thomas' was quite generous. You speak excellent English."
"Thank you," Félix said. "I understand you have done some research on the church."
"It's an interesting old thing," Wright agreed. "I assume you're planning to restore the church? Perhaps a museum?"
Félix glanced at Oscar. "We are looking into restoration, yes. Do you know of Mr Shelley's work?"
"Félix," Oscar said, under his breath.
"I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure..."
"Mr Shelley is a talented restorationist and architect. It's his specialty," Félix continued blithely. "I've had him on retainer for over a year."
"I'm glad to know the church is in such good hands," Father Wright said affably.
"He is also a very imaginative designer. I'll show you some of his paintings sometime; he does very well with watercolours," Félix said. "This is why he is so uniquely qualified to do the required renovations."
The priest's eyebrows raised slightly. "Renovations?"
"Yes; I'm planning to live in the building when it's finished."
There was a long silence. Father Wright folded his hands, resting his chin on his knuckles.
"You're planning to turn the church into your home?" he asked.
"Yes, Father."
"Why?"
"Because it's beautiful," Félix answered.
"It's a church," the priest answered, sharply.
"But it's been deconsecrated, hasn't it?" Oscar asked. The priest stiffened. "It's not actually a -- "
"You do not deconsecrate a church, Mr. Shelley, you unconsecrate. Consecration is not an object to be removed, but a process to be undone."
Oscar could hear Portia's voice, in his head, saying You're in for it now.
"All right, but it's been unconsecrated?" Oscar persisted.
"Yes, in the eyes of the church. That doesn't mean it's not still a sacred place. To come in with your bulldozers and your landscapers..."
"Nothing will be bulldozed," Félix protested.
"Listen, I may not see it as a church, but I see it as a building," Oscar added, feeling that he was perhaps not keeping up his end of the debate. "There's nothing more valuable to me than buildings."
"A church, unconsecrated or otherwise, is a house of God, not a housing project," Father Wright said firmly.
"I am a Catholic, Father, I mean no disrespect to the church," Félix said, and the priest scowled. "I have only respect for the artistry and craft which went into the building as an act of devotion."
"I must register my strongest protestations at this."
"Unfortunately, it's already been sold," Oscar said. "Listen, I'm not a Catholic, and if the church is offended by my wanting to make an old, bricked up, broken-windowed, falling-apart home for birds and homeless people into something beautiful and functional, I'm afraid my respect for the church isn't exactly at an all-time high."
Father Wright was staring at him as if he'd come from another planet. Oscar pushed on, pulse racing at his own daring. "Your own religious body sold the land and the building to Mr. Carvell. You really have three options. If you're really that upset, you can talk to the church and get them to void the sale, if they can, or buy it back, if Mr. Carvell will sell. You can talk to Mr. Carvell here, directly, and try to convince him, but he has very independent ideas about this kind of thing. Or you can talk to me, because I'm the one actually doing the renovation, and I'm reasonable about preserving the things you want preserved."
Both Félix and Father Wright were looking at him now. Oscar sipped his water.
"I'm done now," he added, just as the girl from earlier -- Enid, apparently -- appeared again.
"Dinner for you gentlemen? Father?" she asked, pencil poised.
"I think I've lost my appetite," Wright said, quietly. "I'll settle at the till."
"I can pay -- " Félix began, but Wright held up one hand.
"I don't think that would be a good idea," he said. Oscar and Félix watched him walk away, quietly. Enid watched too, then turned back to them.
"You're not Satanists, are you?" she asked.
"He might be," Félix said, tilting his head at Oscar, who bowed his head.
"I'd like some french fries. Chips," Oscar corrected. "And some chicken of some kind."
"Pretty mild eater for a Satanist," she sniffed, glancing at Félix expectantly.
"Stew, please, with extra dumplings," Félix said. "And a bottle of something dangerously alcoholic."